Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot,
We see no reason,
Why gunpowder treason,
Should ever be forgot!

Standing facing the bonfire, the heat blazed over my body. I
was close enough that the heat almost became painful. It was an intriguing
sensation, my face burning hot while my back felt the bitter chill of the
November breeze.

The conical pile of wood, broken branches and old unwanted
household furniture stood nearly nine feet tall, the flames licked their way up
the sides creating a plume of smoke which swayed with the wind. Alone, I watched
the flames, intoxicated by their seductive dance, while the festivities went on
seemingly oblivious to my presence.

Somehow I got caught up in the village's excitement in
preparing for this day. I can't exactly remember volunteering for anything but I
had well and truly been roped in. I suppose it was just their attempt to give a
poor lonely young man something to do. Their fussing never really bothered me, I
was happy on my own and keeping myself to myself but they kept trying to draw me
out into village life. My neighbours were the worst, perpetually asking if I was
all right and inviting me over for coffee or dinner. A few times I accepted the
offer but these days I would decline as they would make me feel like I was on
show and had to explain why I was still single. I know they meant well, but they
were beginning to get a little suffocating, especially when almost every
conversation with them contained the phrase, `you should get out more'.

The husband never really took an interest in me, but it was
his wife, Jean, was always trying to do the right thing and be the friend to
everybody in the village. I must have been her pet project for the passed year
or so, trying to assimilate me into the village. I suppose it kept her busy and
distracted from the dull life she must lead. It was her idea to organise this
big event.

"It would be nice to get the whole village together instead of
all those little disappointing parties. And it is a big anniversary year." And
so the months of preparation started.

This year marked the four hundredth anniversary of the failed
Catholic conspiracy `Gunpowder Plot' to blow up King James I and his parliament.
I was never a big celebrator of Guy Fawkes' Night, not since I had grown up,
although I do remember some great times when I was a kid, the bonfire, the
fireworks and the toffee apples that nearly glued my jaw shut. As I thought
about the day, I wondered exactly what was being celebrated, the fact the plot
was foiled or the attempt itself. But the reason the day is celebrated is, I
suppose, peculiarly English, it's the sheer audacity of the attempt we admire
and long forgotten is the gruesome fate that met the conspirators; being hung,
drawn and quartered.

Jean's two young teenage sons made the effigy of Guy Fawkes
out of their father's clothes and got the straw stuffing from an adjacent farm,
I hoped they had asked permission but I doubted it. They also cobbled together a
cart with old pram wheels and paraded the effigy, dressed in what looked like a
relatively new Ben Sherman shirt, around the village, proclaiming `penny for the
guy' before adding that all donations helped fund the event.

My contribution was wood. I had been volunteered to go round
knocking on doors collecting the old furniture and dismantling it, removing the
nails and screws ready for the bonfire. Thankfully someone else built the thing
as I had no idea how to and quite frankly when he explained the dynamics and
structure of a good bonfire, I found myself stifling a yawn.

Tonight seemed the perfect night for it, the sky was clear so
the stars created the perfect canvas for the fireworks display and the night was
cold so we all wrapped up warm with scarves and gloves. The adults tried to warm
themselves up with mugs of hot soup while the kids kept warm by running about or
playing with sparklers, drawing lines in the air and hoping the light trail
lasted long enough to write their name or draw a funny face.

I ripped myself away from the blaze and dawdled over to get
some soup. Jean handed over the mug.

Her questions didn't seem to warrant any answers but as she
beamed a smile to me I said. "You've done a great job, Jean. I hope you get a
chance to enjoy it rather than being helping out all the time."

"Oh, I'm having a ball, Pete. Don't worry about me."

Slurping the soup I smiled at her and returned to the bonfire,
wondering how long I should stay. I would have been enjoying myself more, but I
had no-one to share it with. I showed my face and looked happy but kept trying
to decide when I could slip away unnoticed.

Gradually I began to realise just what an effort today must
have been for Jean. Not just raising the funds but approaching the Parish
Council to get permission to hold it on the Village Green, sorting out the
firework display, the food. I wondered if there had to be any insurance, what
with today's litigious society and the many companied encouraging people to sue
for whatever reason.

I blinked, as a stray cinder blew into my eye and I told
myself to stop worrying about insurance and try to enjoy yourself.

"Would you care for some bonfire toffee?"

The voice behind me was soft and eloquent. I turned to see a
young man holding a metal try of bonfire toffee, broken into shards by a hammer
more used to pounding nails that toffee.

I smiled at him and picked up sharp piece. "You could do some
damage with this."

"Only to your teeth. I don't think anyone's been killed by
being stabbed by bonfire toffee. I'm Neale. Jean sent me over. Said to keep you
company." He grimaced when he mentioned her name.

"Oh."

"She's my aunt and please feel free to say what you like about
her. I know she's a busy body. In fact tell be to bugger off if you want, at
least then I can report back that I've tried and found you," he effected the
voice of an old matriarch, reminiscent of Dame Edith Evans' Lady Bracknell, "a
very rude young man."

I chuckled. "No, it's alright. I already have more in common
with you than anybody else. Jean." I stressed her name.

"Wait here while I ditch this tray of murder weapons. And
chuck that vile soup on the fire; I'll bring over a couple of proper drinks."

Realising I still held the splinter of hard golden toffee in
my hand, I tossed it into the fire but kept hold of the soup as, although it
tasted like cardboard, it was doing a wonderful job of warming my hands.

"Here you are, Pete." Neale held a polystyrene cup at arms
length, waiting for me to take it. As I had not introduced myself, I must have
looked confused. "Don't worry, Jean's told me about you."

Tossing the soup into the fire I grabbed the foam cup and
sniffed the liquid.

"This'll warm you up more than any soup." Neale sipped.

Whisky. The strong aroma went into my lungs. I sipped and
smiled at Neale. This was good stuff, I could tell. Not the cheap blended stuff
but a descent single malt. The peat used to fire the distillery permeated the
amber liquid to give it a distinct flavour. I was no expert but I knew a good
whisky when it passed my lips.

"There's nowt like a good drop of usquebaugh to warm ye on a
cold night." He spoke in a mock Scottish accent.

"Thanks. If I'd known there was a bar I would have hit it
earlier."

"Forward planning." Neale said and retrieved a silver flask
from inside his coat. "I knew if I were to survive this I would need some
encouragement, and here it is." He raised his foam cup in mock toast.

"So, what has Jean been saying about me. It's probably all
true but I'd like the opportunity to deny it anyway."

"Oh not much, she just worries. She can't understand why you
live on your own, so will always try to match you off with someone. Lord help
those two little brats when they start having girlfriends."

"Is this what this is? A match?" I furrowed my brow.

"Got it in one, Tiger. She may look like your stuck up Women's
Institute upper-middle class housewife but she got no problem with getting two
blokes together. She's even been known to talk about sex." He raised his
eyebrows. "Don't worry though. Just stick with me and we can get each other
through this and after tonight we never have to see each other again. She's done
this to me too many times."

"Why do you go along with it?"

"Haven't you heard her nag?" Neale sounded worn down. "She's a
fighter and if she can't win by force she'll win by attrition."

Smiling at him, I sipped my drink.

"But at least I live a fair distance away from her. You live a
few hundred yards away. Must be hell and I bet you didn't get off lightly in
helping with this." His arms surveyed the green, encapsulating all the people
and the stalls of food and games.

"Yeah, I was roped in to help with the bonfire." I wanted to
say more as I was conscious that he was doing all the talking. I didn't want to
come across rude.

I couldn't understand what was so captivating about this young
man. He seemed to speak incessantly, almost afraid of the silence, but not
nervously. I felt increasingly foolish standing and sipping my drink while he
rambled but I didn't want to stop him. His voice held my attention and I caught
myself hearing his words rather than listening to him speak. His words were
beautifully formed, every syllable clear and every letter impeccably pronounced.
A sweet sound not effected by any ridiculous notion of class as I could still
hear the trace of his regional accent. My gaze shifted from his dark eyes to the
motion of his lips forming those words I heard.

"Let's go find a seat." He must have seen me fade as his hand
rested on my shoulder to bring me back.

"Uh, sure." Was all I could grunt and he hooked his arm round
mine to lead me away from the bonfire.

I wanted my head to come down from the clouds and I screwed my
eyes tight. My mundane way of coping meant me asking a load of stupid questions:
What do you do? Where do you live? which he answered and then politely threw the
same questions back to me.

When he glanced at his watch I thought he was now bored with
me, wondering how much longer he would have to suffer my company.

"Only half an hour to the big display. Let's go find a nice
spot to watch."

Throughout the night the occasional small firework was let off
to keep the kids amused but the big display was saved for the end.

"Wait here." Releasing my arm, he dashed over to Jean and I
watched as he whispered into her ear. I detected a faint smile from her and then
he disappeared under the trestle table which held the buckets of soup.

I never saw him emerge. My eyes never left the spot from which
he vanished, until out of the corner of my eyes I saw him jogging slowly over to
me, a blanket under his arm. He found a sheltered spot under a tree and laid
down the blanket. He was about to sit down when I stopped him.

"Neale." He straightened his back and looked at me. I gripped
his shoulders in my hands and pulled him closer to me, my lips parted slightly
and pressed against his. His hands scrapped my flanks as he wrapped them round
me, pushing our hips together.

We lay on the blanket staring up at the stars, our fingers
entwined, waiting for the inevitable disappointment of the fireworks. No
fireworks could come close to those of our first kiss.

Thank you for reading

Comments are welcomed and gratefully received. Please email me at nifty (at)
talesfromastream.co.uk There are other stories on my website
www.talesfromastream.co.uk, some
of which have not been posted here.

I realise that Bonfire Night is a British celebration and most
of my readers do not hail from these glorious shores. And, for those interested
in finding out more about Guy Fawkes and Bonfire Night, there is a short summary
as a good starting point on the BBC website, which also contains some other
links for a more detailed history: